Summer on Blossom Street

My first customer of the morning—a woman I’d never met before—stepped into the shop and fifteen minutes later, I rang up a hundred-dollar yarn sale. A promising start to the day.

As soon as the door closed, Margaret set aside her project, an afghan for our mother who resides at a nearby assisted-living complex. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

“Happen with what?” I asked.

“This adoption thing.”

I froze. I should’ve known Margaret wouldn’t leave the subject alone. At least not until she’d cast a net of dire predictions. I understood that this impulse was one she couldn’t resist, just as I understood that it was motivated by her protectiveness toward me. But I didn’t need to hear it right now.

“What’s that?” I asked, hoping my irritation didn’t show.

“Have you talked to a social worker yet?”

“Well, of course.” I’d spoken to Anne Marie, and she’d recommended Evelyn Boyle, the social worker who’d been assigned to Ellen and had handled her adoption. Anne Marie and Ellen fit so perfectly together that their story had inspired me to look beyond my fears. So Brad and I had approached Evelyn.

Margaret shook her head, which annoyed me even more.

“Anne Marie gave me the phone number of the woman who helped her adopt Ellen,” I said.

Margaret’s brows came together in consternation and she tightened her lips.

“What now?” I asked, trying to remain calm.

“I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Why not? It’s too late anyway.”

“This social worker deals with foster kids, right?”

“I guess so.” I knew so, but didn’t see how that was relevant. “Why should it matter?”

My sister rolled her eyes, as though it should be obvious. “Because she’s got children in her case files,” Margaret said with exaggerated patience. “She probably has lots of kids and nowhere to place them. Mark my words, she’ll find a reason to leave some needy child with you. And not a baby, either.”

“Margaret,” I said pointedly, “Brad and I are going to adopt an infant. This social worker, Evelyn, is helping us through the process, nothing more.”

Margaret didn’t respond for several minutes. Just when it seemed she was prepared to drop the subject, she added, “Finding an infant might not be that easy.”

“Perhaps not,” I agreed, unwilling to argue. “We’ll have to wait and see what the adoption agency has to say.”

“It might be expensive, what with lawyers and everything.”

“Brad and I will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Margaret looked away, frowning slightly, as if she needed to consider every negative aspect of this process. “There are private adoption agencies, too, you know.”

I did know about them, but it made better financial sense to approach the state agency first.

“What about adopting from outside the country?”

Margaret was apparently trying to be helpful, but I wasn’t convinced I should let down my guard.

“We’re holding that in reserve,” I said.

“I hear it’s even more expensive than private adoptions.”

“Yes, well, it’s another option to investigate….”

Margaret’s shoulders rose in a deep sigh. “Are you going to tell Mom?”

With our mother’s fragile health and declining mental condition it wasn’t something I’d considered doing. “Probably not…”

Margaret nodded, her mouth a tight line.

“Mom has a hard enough time remembering that Cody’s my stepson,” I reminded her. On our last visit she’d asked copious questions about the “young man” I’d brought with me.

My sister swallowed visibly. “Mom didn’t recognize Julia when we went to see her a few days ago.”

I felt a jolt of pain—for Margaret, for her daughter, Julia, for Mom. This was the first time Margaret had mentioned it. Our mother’s mental state had declined rapidly over the past two years and I suspected that in a little while she wouldn’t recognize me anymore, either. Margaret and I shared responsibility for checking in on her and making sure she was well and contented. These days my sister and I had taken over the parental role, looking after our mother.

I could pinpoint exactly when that role reversal had taken place. It’d been the day Mom’s neighbor found her unconscious in the garden. She’d collapsed while watering her flowers. Everything had changed from that moment on.

Our mother had ceased to be the woman we’d always known. Living in a care facility now, she was increasingly confused and uncertain. It broke my heart to see Mom struggling so hard to hide her bewilderment at what was happening to her.

“Mom will be happy for you,” Margaret mumbled. “At some point her mind will clear and she’ll realize you have an infant.”

I smiled and hoped this was true, although I had my doubts… and I knew Margaret did, too.

The bell above the door chimed before we could discuss it further, and I glanced up at an attractive young woman who’d entered the shop. I hadn’t seen her before.

“Hello,” I said, welcoming her with an encouraging smile. “Can I help you?”

The woman nodded and toyed nervously with the cell phone in her hand. “Yes…I saw the notice in the window for the Knit to Quit class.”

“Do you know how to knit?”

She shook her head. “No…well, some. I learned years ago but I’ve forgotten. Would this class be too advanced for someone like me?”

“Not at all. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time. I’ll be happy to help you refresh your skills.” I went on to explain that there’d be seven sessions and told her the price of the class.

She nodded again. “You can sign up for the class no matter what you want to quit?” She stared down at the floor as she spoke.

“Of course,” I assured her.

“Good.” She set her bag and cell phone on the counter. “I’d like to pay now.” She handed me a credit card and I read her name—Phoebe Rylander.

“You’re our very first class member,” I told her.

“So the class starts next week?”

“Yes.”

“The sign said Wednesdays from six to eight?”

“Yes. I’m keeping the store open late. It’ll be my first night class.”

I processed her payment and wrote her name on the sign-up sheet. “What are you trying to quit?” I asked in a friendly voice.

“Not what, who,” she whispered.

“Oh…” Her answer took me by surprise.

“There’s a man I need to get over,” she said with tears in her eyes. “A man I…once loved.”

CHAPTER

2

Phoebe Rylander

Clark made their breakup far more difficult than it needed to be. Phoebe had just stepped out of A Good Yarn when her cell phone chirped again. She didn’t have to check Caller ID to know it was Clark Snowden, her fiancé. No…ex-fiancé.

The man she still loved, despite everything.

She’d had no choice except to end their engagement, no matter how much her heart ached. When she thought about what he’d done, she knew she couldn’t allow him to dissuade her again. Not this time. It was final. She told herself that nothing he could say or do would change her mind. But soon she’d be walking into an empty condo and it would feel so lonely and isolated that she was afraid her resolve would weaken. This afternoon she’d felt stronger and more in control of her emotions. The knitting class would help, too.

Knowing what she had to do didn’t make it easy. Clark’s efforts to win her back turned the whole ordeal into an even bigger mess. He’d gone so far as to involve their families. But she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t, let herself give in.

Her cell phone continued to make its little chirping noises, announcing his call.

If Phoebe didn’t answer, Clark would just leave a message and then try again. She flipped open her phone. “Don’t call me anymore,” she said emphatically, surprised at the conviction in her voice. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Phoebe, please…don’t. Let me—”

“This conversation is over.” She started to hang up.

“Phoebe, please, the least you can do is hear me out.”

“I already have.” She hesitated. “There’s nothing more to say.”

“I’m begging you.”

“Clark, I returned your engagement ring. It’s over. We’re through.”

“You’re angry and you have every right to be. But if you’d give me five minutes, just five minutes, I could explain everything.”

Oh, he was good—as plenty of juries had discovered. “No, Clark, I fell for that the first time. This is it. I’m done. As of a week ago we are officially unengaged.”

“You don’t mean that! You can’t. You love me and I’m crazy about you…. You know that, Phoebe. You have to know that. I’d never, ever do anything to hurt you. I’d rather die.”

“If that was the case, I’d be picking out a coffin for you because you have hurt me, Clark.” Her voice faltered and she hated the fact that she’d shown even this small weakness. Rather than continue the conversation, she closed her cell.

Walking at a clipped pace, she hurried down Blossom Street, her vision blurred by tears. At the intersection, she swiped one hand across her cheek, sniffling despite herself. She’d gone for a walk on her lunch hour and ventured much farther than she normally did. In fact, she’d never set foot on Blossom Street before today. But by now she was late; she had to get back to work. Her boss at Madison Avenue Physical Therapy was understanding, but he wouldn’t appreciate it if she kept a patient waiting.

When she got to the clinic, Phoebe was breathless. She hadn’t eaten lunch and her stomach was already in knots. Well, there was nothing she could do about that.

Mrs. Dover was in the clinic’s waiting room as Phoebe rushed in the front door. Her patient lowered the magazine and smiled at Phoebe, who did her best to smile back. Caroline Dover had undergone a complete knee replacement and she had a regularly scheduled appointment at one o’clock every Wednesday. She’d been seeing Phoebe for the past six weeks; they were making progress, although it was slow.

“Come on back,” Phoebe told the older woman. She hurried ahead of her and drew in a deep breath. It would take a lot of resolve to get through the afternoon.

By concentrating strictly on her patients, she made it to the end of the day. At five-ten, she pulled on her jacket and grabbed her purse, eager to escape. Because she couldn’t resist, she checked her cell phone. Clark had left three messages. Refusing to be swayed, she erased each one without listening.

She dared not let herself hear his voice; she was too susceptible. The problem was, she wanted to believe him. …She so badly wanted all of this to go away. That was why she’d impulsively signed up for the knitting class. Knit to Quit. The sign in the yarn shop window had been like a flashing neon light. If she was going to convince Clark that she was serious—and she was—she’d need a distraction to help her through the next few weeks.

Her hand tightened on her cell phone. Even as her fingers pushed the buttons to erase Clark’s messages, she yearned to talk to him. She wanted to be reassured of his love, wanted him to offer some plausible reason that would explain his need to seek out other women. However, there were no reasons. No excuses. Nothing he could say would change what he’d done.

“Did you and Clark have another spat?” Bill Boyington, her boss, asked as she started out the door.

The question caught her unawares.

“What makes you ask?” Phoebe had done her utmost to remain professional and therefore unemotional all week. She hadn’t revealed to anyone at work that she’d ended her engagement.

“There were flowers delivered for you.” He motioned to the receptionist’s desk.

Sure enough, a huge floral arrangement sat on the corner. She wondered how she’d missed seeing it. Orchids, lilies and roses were interspersed among white hydrangeas; obviously Clark had spared no expense. It occurred to her that they were more fitting for a funeral than a reconciliation. But in many ways this was a funeral and Phoebe felt like weeping all over again.

Determined to be strong, she squared her shoulders. “I don’t want them.”

Bill looked at her oddly.

“Take them home to Louise,” she suggested, knowing Bill’s wife would enjoy them.

Her boss didn’t seem convinced. “I’ll bet he spent two hundred bucks on that.”

For a second Phoebe was tempted to forgive him. Clark was so determined, so intent on overcoming her resistance. Still, she couldn’t allow even a small crack in her defenses. She shook her head. “I…I don’t want them. Either give them to Louise or throw them away.”

“You’re serious?” Bill asked, frowning as if this was some weird joke.

“It’s over between Clark and me,” she said bleakly.

“No patching it up this time?”

Phoebe blinked back tears. “No…I really don’t have any choice.”

Her boss patted her shoulder gently. “Do you want to talk about it with anyone? Me or…” He nodded at the receptionist’s desk. Claudia was around the same age as Phoebe’s mother.

“Thanks, but…I don’t think so. I’m still feeling pretty raw.”

Again Bill patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know how much you loved him.”

With a trembling hand, Phoebe reached into her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. Anger and indignation would only carry her so far and then the regrets would take over. Experience had taught her that she needed to be prepared, that she needed an action plan to combat the depression she knew would follow.

“Bill, would you do something for me?”

“Of course.” His unquestioning allegiance and willingness to help made it harder to hold back the emotion.

“I’d appreciate it if you told Claudia to refuse anything else Clark Snowden has delivered here.” Her voice broke just a bit when she said it. If she forgave Clark this time she’d lose all self-respect. Shunning him would take real effort. She’d have to work at it, just like Caroline Dover worked at making her knee function properly. But eventually Phoebe would learn to stop loving Clark. Eventually her heart would stop aching.

Bill hugged her as she left, and that brought fresh tears to her eyes. On her way to the parking garage her cell phone chirped again. She didn’t bother to see who it was. A cheery jingle announced that she had a message.

As she walked, her feet slowed. Clark wouldn’t give up easily. He would hound her, send her gifts, plead with her until she weakened. And she just might. She had before.

It was hard to turn away from the man you loved, hard to fight the desire to accept his excuses. This was familiar ground—territory she’d sworn she’d never travel again and yet…here she was.

No, she couldn’t give in. She couldn’t falter.

Walking by the phone shop, the same shop she passed five days a week, she really noticed it for the first time. After a short hesitation, Phoebe turned back. Staring in the window, she saw the latest cell phone accessories.

It went without saying that Clark would continue to call her until he made a dent in her resolve. She knew his plan and had fallen for it once before. If she was truly serious about avoiding Clark she had to send him the right signals.

Stepping inside the store, Phoebe looked around.

“You’ll need to take a number,” a harried saleswoman instructed her.

“I have a question.”

“You’ll still need to take a number.”

“Okay.” She got a ticket that read 57 and leaned casually against the wall. There was no reason to rush home. All that awaited her was an empty apartment—well, empty except for her cat, Princess.

The cat had more common sense than Phoebe did. Princess had never cared for Clark and the feeling was mutual. He’d said that when they were married, he wanted her to give Princess to her widowed mother. To her own disgust, Phoebe had tentatively agreed.

The saleswoman called out “Fifty-seven!” twice before Phoebe realized it was her turn. The process of changing her cell phone number was relatively easy, although it would be a nuisance to notify her family and friends.

Family.

One person she hadn’t updated so far was her mother, who loved Clark and had championed him after the first…indiscretion. All Phoebe could do was pray that her mother would take her side this time around.

When she got home, she was feeling less vulnerable. Princess greeted her at the door of her condo, purring as she rubbed Phoebe’s ankles.

Bending down and scooping Princess into her arms, Phoebe buried her face in the soft gray fur. “You were right all along,” she whispered. “I should have trusted your character assessment. It would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”

The light on her phone blinked madly; Phoebe could guess who’d made most of the calls. So she was surprised to discover that the first message was from her mother.

“Call me as soon as you’re home,” Leanne Rylander implored. “This is important, Phoebe. I have to speak to you.”

Phoebe rested her forehead against the cupboard door. Sooner or later, she’d need to tell her mother, although from the tone of Leanne’s voice, Phoebe suspected she’d already heard.

Taking a moment to gather her resolve, she reached for the phone.

“Is that you, Phoebe?” Leanne asked urgently.

“I assume Clark’s contacted you?” Phoebe asked with resignation.

“He did. Oh, Phoebe, he’s beside himself.”

“He should be,” she snapped. “Mother, please don’t tell me you’re on his side.” It was difficult enough to withstand Clark’s pleas—and nearly impossible to ignore them when her mother’s voice joined his.

“Well, no… What he did was inexcusable.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You have every right to be upset,” her mother continued soothingly.

“Every right!” Phoebe thought fleetingly that Clark had used the same words. She wondered if Leanne knew the full story. “Mom, do you realize Clark was arrested for solicitation?”

“Yes, he told me. It’s no excuse but he said he just didn’t think being with a prostitute was really cheating.”

The fact that Clark had told her mother the truth, or part of it, anyway, shocked her. “But…he tried to hire a hooker!”

She heard sympathy in her mother’s voice. “Yes, I know.”

“This isn’t his first arrest, either.”

Her mother released a long sigh. “I can only imagine how upset you are.”

“No, you can’t!” she cried. “You can’t begin to imagine how upset and humiliated I am.”

“But, Phoebe, sweetheart, you don’t understand. There are extenuating circumstances. Clark was set up. This is a clear case of entrapment. He assured me it’ll never go to trial. In fact, Clark is considering a lawsuit against the Seattle Police Department for causing him this embarrassment.”

Phoebe closed her eyes. “Mother. Please listen to what you’re saying. It doesn’t matter if this was entrapment. It doesn’t matter that the girl he tried to hire was an undercover policewoman. It doesn’t matter if this goes to court or not. What does matter is that the man I was going to marry has this…this weakness. This need for other women. Not even for a relationship. Just for sex. How humiliating is that? I don’t know if he’s excited by the danger of picking someone up on the street or what. All I know is that I can’t and won’t marry a man who’s betrayed me like this.”

Her mother sighed again. “Phoebe, listen to me. You’re my daughter and I want you to be happy—but you should consider the circumstances.”

The conversation was becoming painful. “The bottom line is that Clark was willing to pay another woman for sex. Can I say it any plainer than that?”

“Oh, Phoebe, enough of that kind of talk. There’s no need to be crude.”

“How would you like me to pretty it up?” she cried. “Clark wanted to sleep with another woman? A woman he paid! Does that make it any less offensive to you?”

“Oh, dear. You are angry, aren’t you?”

“Angry? Angry?” Yes, she was angry, and at the moment outrage was good therapy. “I’m furious, Mom. I’m also hurt, disillusioned, humiliated, devastated and brokenhearted—and that only scratches the surface.”

Her mother didn’t immediately respond. “You should sleep on it before you do anything drastic,” she finally said.

“Sleep on what? The fact that the man I love is a cheat? Mom, do you actually believe this behavior will stop once we’re married?”

“Men—”

“Mom,” she wailed, cutting her off. “Don’t make excuses for Clark.”

“But, honey, he explained it to me. I know it’s bad but he really doesn’t feel that being with a…you know, call girl is cheating.”

“So that makes it all right? You can’t be serious!”

Her mother paused. “It’s just that Clark’s so well-connected and his mother and I—”

“His mother invited you to the country club and you met all the people you read about in the paper.” It was hard to even say the words, but it was the truth. Leanne enjoyed being affiliated with the Snowdens. They were a wealthy, well-known family.

“Don’t you remember how excited I was when you mentioned your new patient?” her mother said, sounding as brokenhearted now as Phoebe felt.

Phoebe did. Her mother’s favorite section of the paper had always been the society pages. When Clark damaged his knee in a skiing accident, she’d been his physical therapist. He’d asked her out after their very first session. Phoebe had declined; it was against company policy to date a patient.

Clark had courted her for weeks, sending her flowers, bringing her gifts, charming her. Despite his efforts, she resisted every attempt he made and refused to see him outside the clinic—until he’d finished his therapy. She should’ve learned her lesson then. Clark didn’t take rejection well. She’d broken off the engagement, and that had injured his pride. He wasn’t about to let her walk away. In his view of the world, he was in control; he did the leaving.

The minute her mother had heard Clark’s name, she’d been ecstatic. Early on, Leanne hinted that it would be fine to bend the rules just a bit for someone of his stature. As soon as they’d started dating, Leanne had told all her friends that her daughter was seeing Max and Marlene Snowden’s only son. Clark was part of his father’s prestigious legal firm and destined to become a full partner within the next five years. As far as Leanne Rylander was concerned, Phoebe had struck gold.

And Clark had swept her off her feet. Just like a romantic hero. He’d escorted her to parties and concerts. He’d lavished gifts on her, flattered her—and asked her to marry him.

The first sign of trouble came when a woman from his office stopped by the clinic and asked to speak to Phoebe privately. Kellie Kramer warned her that Clark had a nasty habit of paying for sex. Phoebe hadn’t believed it. Why should she? This woman obviously had a vendetta against Clark. Then Kellie had provided proof, showing her a copy of the warrant issued when Clark was arrested—the first time. She’d risked her job removing it from the file because she felt Phoebe had a right to know. Kellie claimed, as well, that there’d been plenty of other occasions. Clark just hadn’t been caught.

Stunned, Phoebe had confronted Clark, who seemed genuinely surprised that she was upset. According to her fiancé this was something practically all men did. Sex with a prostitute didn’t mean anything, he said.

Phoebe had found it difficult to listen to these inadequate excuses. She’d wanted to break off the engagement immediately. Clark had begged for a second chance. He’d called her at all hours of the day and night. He’d sent flowers and left pleading messages, until she’d weakened enough to agree. But the person who’d really convinced her to give him a second chance had been her own mother.